


Jacking the Airwaves

by artvinsky



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Got Talent, But not quite, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 10:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artvinsky/pseuds/artvinsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I want a fanfic where the assassins are on assassins got talent and do the shittiest acts and get voted off because the judges are templars’ - mcdesmonds</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jacking the Airwaves

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Assassin's Got Talent](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/16395) by mcdesmonds. 



When Desmond throws himself onto the sofa with the remote control in hand and a can of Mountain Dew in the other, he turns on the television. Immediately, he is assaulted with the loud, annoying opening introduction of a flashy reality TV show from Abstergo Studios—

Hold on.

“SHIT!” He almost spits out his soda. The sight of Cesare Borgia in his shiny, polished armour of baby angels holding a microphone is enough make him gag. “Lucy, Shaun, whoever the fuck is in this house you better see this!”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen but he immediately scoots over to the end of the sofa, making room for Ezio and Connor who jump into the ruined suede like it was a haystack. Shaun makes it a point to sit on the arm rest on his end while Malik takes the other, next to Connor. Altair, grumbles and follows them taking his seat on the carpeted floor. Lucy’s head appears from the study, her eyes twinkling in curiosity while Rebecca slides into the living room, lying on the floor holding a bowl of popcorn.

Desmond hears his dad grumbling in the kitchen.

“Oh my god, is this what I think it is?” Shaun asks, bringing his mug of tea to his mouth. A loud _‘sshhhh’_ from Ezio and Rebecca cause him to spill his scalding tea on himself and on Desmond.

“AUGH, Shaun! Fuck-”

“Shit, sorry, Desmond-”

“Get out of the living room, we’re trying to watch here,” Malik hisses at them, motioning to the kitchen where they can see William’s head sticking out, trying to get a glimpse of the show. Immediately they fall silent when Cesare starts speaking in that slimy voice of his backed by different clips of different assassins across the era showing the world their god-blessed talents and failures.

_“Are you ready for the return of the biggest search of the most pathetic Assassin the world has ever seen, i miei amici? If you thought last year had been horrible and pathetic for the Assassins, then wait till you see this year’s!”_

“How the flippin’ fuck did we even get roped into this?” Desmond outright screeches before Ezio forces a hand to his mouth, his eyes seemingly glued to the television.

_“With our Grandmasters spanning across the ages, Robert de Sable from the Crusades-”_

“It is basically another ploy to see their downfall,” Robert says, raising the metal salet from his face and meeting the camera with a sneer. Altair visibly radiates rage from Connor’s side of the floor, making everyone scoot away from him by at least three inches. “For the world to see how pathetic they really are. I am very honoured that I get to enjoy their humiliation first hand. I would like to see them do their worst.”

_“My bastardo of a father, Pope Alexander VI, Rodrigo Borgia-”_

“It is a common thing all Assassins possess,” Rodrigo muses as he smooths out his robes, stepping from his pope car to a crowd of screaming teenaged girls and Templar wannabes and supporters. “Stupidity and dimwittedness, if they are not embarrassing themselves, then they are making you feel embarrassed for them. They are that _patetico._ ”

 _“Tu sei un fottuto stronzo!”_ Ezio spits, reaching over to Rebecca’s bowl of popcorn and throwing a few at the television screen. Lucy immediately reprimands him and yells at him to clean it later. Desmond notices that Clay’s also appeared beside her, his eyes narrowing at the television screen.

_“Two of our famed Colonial Grandmasters, Haytham Kenway and his successor, Charles Lee-”_

The camera focuses on them in the Green Dragon Tavern, sharing a pint of ale over a game of fanarona, to which Connor mutters inaudible Mohawk curses towards.

“This might actually be quite exciting.” Haytham says, moving his black pieces, refusing to look at the camera. “I’m fascinated to see the different shades of idiocy our enemies have. I think they might come to surprise us.”

“Yes, enough of a variety to make us wonder how we’ve had them as our enemies for centuries and centuries,” Charles agrees, taking a sip of his pint.

_“And last but not the least, the 21 st century’s Warren Vidic!”_

“I really think that this year’s show is probably the worst and most hilariously idiotic the Assassins would ever get to be on worldwide television. We’ve outdone ourselves,” Vidic congratulates himself, raising a mug of his coffee to the camera with a foul grin that makes everyone in the room flinch, in Desmond’s case, gag.

_“Well, amici. It all starts right here, right now. Welcome to Assassins Got ‘Talent’! It’s the show that turns normal dignified trained killers into seemingly inept novices by Abstergo’s media. And now we are ready to make that $250 000 nightmare come true again. From coast to coast, country to country, century to century, we’re willing to train our cameras onto any Assassin doing anything.”_

“I hate this show,” Connor says flatly as he refuses to get off the sofa. Many of them understand why, yet they remain confused as to how they got on it in the first place. Desmond believes in Altair’s conspiracy theory that the whole of time and space was gassed for a span of two hours enough to film this show.

Shaun sighs and moves from the arm chair, emptying his tea in one gulp before moving next to Rebecca for the popcorn. When Desmond looks around the living room, he sees William leaning the armrest on his side, while Clay and Lucy sit against the wall not far from Altair. Leonardo pokes his head in, lips pursed in curiosity as he gets a glimpse of the numerous recruits and hierarchies of Assassins humiliating themselves or showing a different side to them on the television.

 _“So our judges are ready and it’s time for our first act,”_ Cesare says enthusiastically off-screen when the Grandmasters seat themselves on the panel fronting an audience, Vidic in the centre flanked by Charles and Haytham on his right and Rodrigo and Robert on his left, all of them looking haughty and ready to humiliate whoever’s forced to go on stage, though Haytham remotely looks fascinated by the whole event. Malik reaches for the remote to turn to volume up and everyone quiets when they see a familiar brightly garbed Turkish Assassin walking onto the bright stage with a grin on face and what looks to be a harmonica in his hand.

“Ezio, is this your Turkish friend you were talking to me about?” Leonardo asks with a smile, clearly affected by the demeanour the Assassin on the television projects.

“Si, though I did not think that he would be so at ease about this,” Ezio replies uncertainly.

 _“Buongiorno, signore,”_ Rodrigo greets, slightly put-off that the first contestant of the year was in fact, not trying to kill them. “What is your name and when are you from?”

“Yusuf Tazim, _efendi_. I am the leader of the Ottoman Assassins of the 1500s,” Yusuf replies confidently, unfazed by the judges’ growing distaste, excluding Haytham, who actually manages to look fascinated yet somehow gentleman-ly about this whole charade.

“And what are you showing us today, sir?” Charles asks, impatiently.

“I shall perform a song on this harmonica using the tricks that a friend had taught me. They called it ‘beatboxing’.”

“Where’d he learn that?” William blurts. “Which one of you taught him that?”

“At your pace, sir,” Charles supplies, waving him off to the microphone.

What Yusuf does is far from what they expected. Desmond finds himself leaning forward in an attempt to understand and comprehend what it music it is that Yusuf makes with the small instrument. It is punchy and catchy, and as Yusuf plays, his feet and his head sway and tap to the beat. The audience begins to clap, cheering him on in encouragement.

 _“Che cazzo,”_ Ezio flats.

When the camera pans to the judges, Desmond cracks up laughing to the sight of everyone but Haytham looking like a mixture of confusion, astonished, and unimpressed. Vidic looks red as a tomato and Charles just looks plain horrified. When Vidic forces his hand on the red button in front of him, Yusuf stops abruptly, as though saddened by the end of his act.

“That was impressive,” Haytham begins, a charming smile on his face, unfazed by his co-judges’ antagonism. “I quite liked that and I would like to hear more. You seemed very comfortable on stage, though what confuses me is how you’ve learnt that skill in the first place.”

Before Yusuf can answer, Vidic cuts him off rudely. “I hated it, get off the stage and don’t you even think about coming back.”

“But-” And the audience boos at this, clearly allying with Haytham about wanting to hear more from Yusuf.

“Leave! Get the hell of the stage, Mister Tazim!”

“Jesus Christ, what an asshole.” Clay scoffs as they see Yusuf give the judges the stink face of all stink faces before stomping off the stage. And before Haytham can even try to defend his opinion, Vidic stands up and looks to the audience.

“This is a show highlighting and showcasing how pathetic Assassins are, not the opposite. You, as an audience, are meant to hate these contestants, not applaud them.” But the audience continues to boo at him, making him shake slightly.

“Talent is talent, Mister Vidic. You are clearly soured of your inability to showcase any but your unlikeable and rude demeanour,” Haytham sneers coolly, making the others turn on him and the audience gasp in awe.

“Oh shit,” Desmond, Shaun and Clay simultaneously say.

“This is your father, Connor? I like him,” Altair says, making everybody hum in agreement.

Connor’s voice betrays a sad sort of pride. “He used to be one of us.”

“Ah, yes, I can see where he gets it from,” Malik affirms.

“Get out, Kenway. _Get. Out_.” Vidic spits, and when Haytham rises, he is met with applause the likes of Yusuf’s perhaps even louder.

“Let this show be tainted by sour old men who wish nothing but fie on their enemies instead of a civil compromise,” Haytham says, almost strutting as he makes his way up the rows of seats and out of the theatre. When the camera pans back on the judges, Charles looks awestruck, as though debating to follow his master like the dog he was. Vidic points to the camera and gestures for it to shut down.

They blink when the screen bleeps unceremoniously.

“I think I’m in love your dad, Connor,” Rebecca almost sighs, chewing on her popcorn absentmindedly.

“I think I’m in love with your dad, too,” Clay echoes, and Lucy laughs beside him. But they see Connor genuinely smiling, pride for his father clearly written on his face.

“You’d think they’d edit it first—” Shaun begins to say, reaching for the remote to mute the bleeping television, but they turn back to the television when the static fizzes out into black and the inversed sign of Abstergo blinks at them from the screen. _E-R-U-D-I-T-O_ appears on the bottom of the sign before phasing out of existence.

“I think _‘Assassin’s Got Talent’_ just got a whole lot more interesting,” Desmond whistles, finally taking a sip of his forgotten and lukewarm can of Mountain Dew.

“But who taught Yusuf how to beatbox?” William asks, as though unfazed by everything that came after Yusuf’s performance.

“I dunno, if we keep watching we’ll probably find out.”


End file.
